Saturn Card

Self-diagnosis, reading, debating behavior

I am somewhere in the autism spectrum

I am

I share many of the characteristics of Asperger’s,

But my poetry is like an odd coping mechanism

I feel pretending I understand other’s feelings or thoughts

The older I get the more I feel I only know my own

I project

The expansive universe warehoused in my cells

To metaphors and analogies of the other’s soul

Playing out in these streets of fire

The poetry is a massive call to arms

To attempt to decipher what is behind the fields of silence

Women who do not wish to speak or do and I cannot comprehend

I insert profound waylays of writing forged in solitary

To unravel the hodgepodge of woven social tapestry

Poor man’s food of love starving for connection

So very few friends and lovers pained to ignite

Wanting not to have to endure the confusing world of misfit toys

Who goes with who; what goes with what?

This poetry is a tool box to supplement the absence of capability

The obsession with holding on to what was said once in principles

Like welded rods of selective memory raking

There is no cure only a mental difference for life

Always alien 

Afraid to show my Saturn card